Free Will Theorem
by Gooblygoo
Summary: St. Bart's University is, bluntly put, financially dependent on its vast and successful astronomy department. The Baker Street family set in the world of academic research. Mystrade AU. For Lily. Warnings: Inaccuracies about university based research.
1. Chapter 1

**This is the opening chapter of an AU that's been stuck in my head ever since I discovered lovely Lily, who is the Greg to my Mycroft, loved astronomy like I do (although she's a astrobiologist and I'm an astrophysicist). She helped me develop some ideas and I owe her the title of this fic. She is also beta for this fic, so HAIL LILY! :)**

**To Lily. **

**(In case you're wondering, Free Will Theorem of John H. Conway and Simon B. Kochen states that, if we have a certain amount of "free will", then, subject to certain assumptions, so must some elementary particles. Fascinating things.)**

**_St. Bart's University is, bluntly put, financially dependant on its vast and successful astronomy department. The Baker Street family set in the world of academic i__n a world where Mrs. Hudson is the department's secretary, John Watson is a lecturer and Sherlock Holmes is a PhD student, __Gregory Lestrade is the proud head of an astro-biology team, The Yard, and Mycroft Holmes has just taken a new position as an astrophysics researcher. _**

**Rating: G (for now)**  
**Warnings: Wild inaccuracies about the world of academic, grant-based research and astrological concepts. I am just a hobbyist and I left my astronomy book as my parent's house.**

* * *

'I'm off,' Greg Lestrade said to the people around the small lunch table, a lightweight one that was easy to decontaminate and therefore often doubled as an extra table in the lab. 'Teaching at the hospital today.'

Quiet murmurs answered his departure, as they always would. Greg looked around the table at the sad remains of his research team. Following a break-through two weeks ago, they had been working more than fulltime to get more evidence. Greg guessed, quite correctly, that Donovan hadn't seen her own bed in four days, preferring Anderson's as it was closer by the department. Professor Dimmock hadn't been seen in the department since Greg's break-through and that made him secretly proud. The man was leader of a team researching a theory directly opposed to his and, upon Greg's discovery, he had fled the department with his tail between his legs.

Greg smiled, repeated that he was leaving, but didn't receive a new reply, so he left.

St. Barts University was, to put it bluntly, financially dependent on its Astronomy department. The university was good, definitely, but its Astronomy department excelled in every single subject area within Astronomy and was known worldwide.

And Doctor Gregory Lestrade was proud to be head researcher of Astrobiology, a prestigious position that, sadly, didn't save him from paperwork. As the head of a considerable research team, he was positively buried in paperwork most of the time.

On top of that, The Yard was miles away from St. Bart's main building, eloquently and unsurprisingly called St. Bart's, but more commonly referred to as 'the hospital'. That was where theories went to be prodded, researched and brought back to life (or die a miserable death, to become the laughing stock of the entire scientific community). It was also the building where incoming students were taught in vast, half-empty lecture theatres.

He knocked on the main window to the open plan lab on his way out, waving at Anderson, who was bent over the work surface and looked up with a grim expression. He must've been doing precision work, because he looked down again soon enough and Greg could hear him cursing through the thick glass. He hurried out of his department and rushed to the tube station.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes hadn't even thought about it when he showed up at his first day at St. Bart's sporting his father's wedding ring. After having received a considerable research grant, one he didn't actually need, and being offered a beautiful office with a team of high trained scientists by the university, he said yes. He was in need of a new 'home-base'. His previous research facility, one which hadn't even been known to the public, had been less than satisfactory, so he had packed up his knowledge and his assistant and left. His assistant, who had taken the name Anthea at St. Bart's, was an organisational wonder child and he had hired her straight out of university on the recommendations of an old friend of his.

His wedding ring, however, was an unfortunate mistake. Not because every single member of his team now mistook him to be married, which he didn't mind, but because he ran into one Gregory Lestrade. Doctor Lestrade, who turned out to be a researcher, made him want to be not-married. He didn't even get the chance to slip off the wedding ring before the observant Lestrade had seen it.

"Doctor Holmes? Hello, I'm professor Lestrade, I'm a big fan of your work," Lestrade grasped his hand eagerly and shook it without reserve. Mycroft was overwhelmed; he was used to timid PhD students and socially awkward researchers who were either too impressed or too scared to be in the same room as him. He already liked this new university.

"Splendid to meet you, but I'm afraid I haven't heard much about your work," Mycroft answered without thinking, internally kicking himself afterwards. He could have improvised. He had considerable knowledge about all fields of Astronomy and his assistant had briefed him on the research teams present at St. Bart's. He would just have to pick the _right_ theory.

To his surprise, Lestrade smiled softly and answered that the theory was only just gaining ground, after a significant break-through only weeks ago.

"You are rather at the frontline of your field then, Doctor," Mycroft said pleasantly.

"My field is Astrobiology. And it's Greg - the Doctor is the man in the blue box," Lestrade said in return. "Are you here as a visiting lecturer?"

"No, I have actually taken a researcher position at St Bart's. This university really does have the best facilities."

"Speak for your own facilities," Greg huffed, "we have dirt everywhere at the Yard."

"I may have limited knowledge of Astrobiology, but I am quite certain there is very little soil involved in the subject area."

Greg laughed and Mycroft joined him quickly. It was controlled, an amused chuckle more than a laugh, but it was more than he had expressed in a while and it surprised him.

"So have you moved to London with your family?" Greg asked.

Mycroft moved to cover his ringed finger with his hand and coughed, "I am not actually married, Professor Lestrade," he said a low voice, "I moved here alone."

"Divorced?" Greg resorted innocently.

"Never married, in fact."

"Hiding your social awkwardness by being fake-married? I've never seen that one before," Greg replied with a glint in his eye.

Mycroft paused, one eyebrow raised as he couldn't help but compare this researcher to his little brother.

"Contrary to popular belief, not all scientists are socially awkward."

"We all have our quirks," Greg raked his hand through his hair, a mischievous smile on his face. It made him look young, Mycroft noted, he could pass as a student.

"I am so sorry, but I am lecturing right now and I have some very eager first-years just dying to hear about acid-based life forms," Greg said as he caught sight of his watch.

"No need for apologies, we are at work after all," Mycroft let the sentence hang mid-air, lingering on a possible invitation to meet outside of Bart's. He regretted it immediately as Greg chuckled again softly and turned to walk away. Mycroft checked if he had missed a ring that committed him to anything, but spotted none. Just too forward then, he let out a breath he didn't realise he had been holding.

Just too forward.

"Are you done being awkward, sir? Professor Sawyer is waiting to meet you to discuss lecture plans," Anthea appeared next to him, following his gaze until it landed on Lestrade. Mycroft coughed and shifted his weight onto his other foot. He considered fighting back for a moment, he was _not_ awkward, but saw no point. Anthea may be perfectly capable of changing plans last minutes and picking up where he'd left off mid-conversation a day ago, but once she had an idea it was hard to distract her.

"Yes, Anthea, lead the way."


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft had always been adverse to change and struggled settling more than the people around him. This move wasn't any different. His central-London flat with open plan kitchen, a large office and impressive ensuite bedroom simply weren't _home_. Nor was the new research facility.

It was big and Anthea texted him is was _shiny_, but that was hardly a quality Mycroft appreciated. He always seemed to forget how young Anthea really was, only in her late twenties she had not yet lost her appreciation for the small things. Neither had most the people he knew, but Anthea could still be overly exciting about something as simple as a newly decorated office. Mycroft would just be glad and deposit himself in the chair, wondering how he could make this home.

Meeting Greg Lestrade might make things a little easier this time, Mycroft mused as he studied his desk. The decoration of this house seemed out-landish and didn't fit at all with what was expected in central London establishments. High ceilings and spacious rooms didn't have a place in this overcrowded city, but someone had had the luxury when they'd built this. And it seemed the department enjoyed that luxury too.

Mycroft's research grant was indeed significant. Not only St. Bart's had devoted a considerable amount of funds to him, he had also gotten funds from several European organisations and if he was a proud man he would mention the significant interest he had received from NASA. He had declined it, loyal to the Eurasian space effort over the American attempt.

He wondered off-handed-ly what the Yard looked like. He knew the Yard had several labs; it was focused on a more practical approach to exploration of science, but that would not make the facility any less grand. The grandeur was something he could certainly get used to. Perhaps he was already used to it: he grew up in a mansion and attended an old, prestigious university before going into well-funded research. Research that took place in simple, new buildings filled with white boards and massive computers.

Mycroft decided he liked his office, it had a library feel to it. He could store books here, he could perhaps even trust his colleagues enough, this department was small and only the specialised students came in here. Students worthy of his undivided attention.

* * *

A flurry of sounds in the hallway disrupted him from his contemplation. He looked up at his door as a young, tall man with a head full of curly hair stumbled through. With a hand gesture that would have been conceived as threatening had his limbs not been extremely stringy, he closed the door.

"Sherlock," Mycroft greeted him with a cold voice. If anyone could make this place more like home, Sherlock would be the one. The older brother didn't necessarily think this was a good thing.

"Mycroft, I thought I'd come check out your office," the tall man said as he flopped down on a chair facing Mycroft's desk.

"Always a pleasure, Sherlock. I am certain Mummy will be happy to hear you are willing to talk to me again," Mycroft was not in the mood for his younger brother right now. He was trying to get accustomed to his new environment. That involved one-to-one attention to the room, he could calculate _people_ in once he was used to the place. Not that he was sensitive, he added as an afterthought.

"How are you settling in?" Sherlock asked, fidgeting in his chair. Mycroft sometimes wondered how this boy could be an academic, studying something mostly theoretical. He would be honest if he said he was surprised he had even made it through his Masters, he hadn't expected his younger sibling to be able to focus on one thing for long enough to write a thousand word essay on it, let alone a 25,000 word dissertation. Now the boy was researching for his PhD, and Mycroft wasn't sure whether he should be glad that he would be seeing more of his little brother in person or whether he should run for the hills.

"The people have been most accommodating," Mycroft vaguely as he glared at the boy, "And you?"

"I have yet to meet my supervisor, but I went by the administration building and the woman who works there made me tea," Sherlock answered, letting his gaze take in the whole room. He was juvenile, hung back in the chair like he was planning to take a nap, his hands dangling towards the floor. He was relaxed, Mycroft noted with surprise.

"I have heard she's very lovely," Mycroft said, contemplating the least obtrusive way to get Sherlock out of his office.

Sherlock choose not to answer and opted instead to jump out of his chair and approach the ceiling-high, but still empty bookcases. "I didn't get an office."

"You're a student."

"And you're powerful," Sherlock turned back to his older brother with one eyebrow pulled up to his hairline.

"I'll have you know I occupy a minor position as a new research lecturer at this university, Sherlock," Mycroft huffed dismissingly.

"And yet they moved this entire department into a different building for your convenience," Sherlock retorted.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "That is merely rumour, little brother. And where did you pick that up?"

Sherlock choose not to answer, he instead turned back to the bookcases and sulked silently, because he didn't get a rise out of his big brother.

"Are you asking for my _help_, Sherlock?" Mycroft, being older, always knew how to get a reaction out of him. He had gotten him to quit his questionable habits and make his experimenting official, he would certainly upset Sherlock enough to get him to leave his office voluntarily.

"No, I have no need for you," Sherlock hissed back.

"And yet you are willing to exploit me for my contacts."

"I got _my_ grant because I am studying a field of astrophysics that is actual and current, an ever-changing field with many theories and this university trusts that I have got the right one. I could change the way astronomy is taught. I am not stuck in some dusty field of theoretics," Sherlock all but jumped at Mycroft. As soon as he had finished, he stepped back, his cold façade of carelessness slipping back into place almost instantly.

Mycroft wore a smug smile, one that was curiously stuck between condescending and endeared. His little brother just wanted to make a change, to matter and he recognised the sentiment. Sherlock hadn't affected their parent's lives, who can continued living as though they only had one son. The oldest son, who was full of promise. Sherlock hadn't mattered to their parents and would now do anything to make them notice him, albeit too late. Mycroft just wanted to matter to anyone but their parents and the fame he had gained as a researcher hadn't given him that.

Mycroft scolded himself internally for letting his sentiment get in the way of his goal.

"If you would be so kind to leave me so I can explore this building, I would be most pleased," Mycroft hinted at the door. With a huff, Sherlock turned and made his exit.

Having to work with his brother was going to be a challenge.


	3. Chapter 3

**This on is going very very slowly. But I give you a bit of science and some Baker Street pubbary, so please forgive.**

**Also Greg's team's research is based on actual research from Dec 2010, when a team of scientists found arsenic-based bacteria in a lake in California. Look it up, it's by Felisa Wolfe-Simon and her team and the original publication is called 'A Bacterium That Can Grow by Using Arsenic Instead of Phosphorus', published in _Science_ 3 June 2011: Vol. 332.**

**I couldn't do this without my lovely beta Lily! Thank you, love, this story is still for you. (She's also credited for the last two chapters, shh). All mistakes that still remain are my own.**

* * *

In the exciting life of academic research, Wednesday night was pub night. At least, in the astronomy department at St. Bart's. Only when there were no major breakthroughs.

This was the first time this month Lestrade's team had the time to sit down and socialise, properly.

The team had had a breakthrough, after all, and it seemed to be supported by evidence left, right and centre at this point. Something Lestrade was rather proud of. His team had been running tests for years, looking for more than the six most common elements to base life on (CHNOPS - carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, sulphur, and phosphorus). Of course, some minor elements could be replaced quite easily to make way for the diverse life already found on earth, but these were merely trace elements. Copper instead of iron in an oxygen carrier, for example. That was old news, but strong enough to base the rest of his program on. A few months ago he had had the idea to try arsenic and found it could theoretically replace phosphorus. The team had gathered around the computer's monitor and just stared, baffled by the obviousness of it.

And now they had possible proof from a lake in the States, one team from there had been sending around samples of an arsenic-filled lake. And Greg's team had found a bacterium in it.

* * *

It quickly became apparent that it would not be the primary topic at tonight's table. The turnout wasn't particularly good, but Lestrade was happy with the company. Around the table were himself, John Watson, lecturer for the first year students, and Molly Hooper, who maintained the university's private telescope installation. Sarah Sawyer, the head lecturer joined them with a beer in her hand.

"Do you guys think those two Holmeses are related?" she asked before she even sat down. Greg tried, and failed, to hold down a small smile, he could do with some gossip about the mysterious new researcher.

He nodded: "Yes, I think so."

The table looked at him expectantly.

"No one can look at someone with that much hate without being related," he expanded, waving a half-empty drink at John.

"Really?" Sarah raised a questioning eyebrow, "I have seen them together, I suppose."

"They were in the library yesterday, you should've seen it," Greg provided.

Sarah turned to John and placed a soft hand on his shoulder, "What do you think, John?"

The minor lecturer jumped as if awoken from a dream and looked at his ex-girlfriend: "They're very similar, aren't they?" He posed the question as though the answer was obvious.

"They hardly look similar," Greg said, frowning.

"Yes," John had a vague expression on his face, "but that look that they give you. The 'why are you telling me what I already know' look. They're mirror images." He shivered slightly and Greg chuckled.

"Oh, I thought you meant a different look," Sarah snickered into her drink. Greg raised his eyebrows at John and found the man looking equally confused back at him. They didn't remember looking at a Holmes in a particularly snicker-worthy manner.

"Molly?" John tried to awaken the woman who was staring into mid-distance next to him.

"Hmm?" she said.

"How many of those G&T's have you had?" John joked, albeit somewhat awkwardly.

"I don't even know," Molly answered and she swirled her drink in her glass to check how much was still in it.

"Have you met them?" Sarah asked eagerly. Greg looked at Molly, somewhat amused.

"Who?" the woman asked, "Oh!" She realised who they were talking about and looked anywhere but at the occupants of the table. "No, not really. I've seen them about."

John rolled his eyes.

"Neither of them pay attention to me," Molly said, almost silently.

Greg nodded and said, "Hmm, they do tend to stay up in that office most of the time."

John looked at him, silently asking how do you know that?, but Greg ignored him.

"You will soon enough," Sarah reassured Molly, as though she needed it, "I had the young one in my office asking when he could finally make use of the telescope."

"The young one.. Black hair?" Molly asked, taking a breath to say that she'd already met him.

"Do they know about the waiting list?" Greg asked at the same time; even though he didn't need it himself, he reserved a few hours every week for his team, and had to do so months in advance.

"I'm sure they do, it's been told to them," Sarah said, waving her drink, "I don't think they're going to keep to it."

The table considered this for a minute.

"I bet they're rich," Sarah added.

"They seem it," Molly said.

"Entitled," John said, with a posh voice and a big smirk.

"John, do you know any gossip?" Sarah asked curiously. Greg exchanged a long suffering look with the good Doctor.

"Oh, come on!" Sarah exclaimed, intercepting the look, "You guys know something!"

John sighed dramatically and pretended to be reluctant as he said: "The young one got kicked out of his last course."

"Oh, where was that," Sarah said excitedly, "Do we know anyone there?" She looked around the group.

"Edinburgh?" John mused.

"Is it THAT kid?" Greg nearly spit beer back into his glass, his eyes growing in size in amazement.

"Who do you know there, Greg?"

"I heard about an incident there, that's all. Do you think it was connected?"

"Incident?" Molly asked, sensing the shift in the conversation to good gossip material on the black-haired mystery.

"Oh, do tell, professor," Sarah said, only a hair away from clapping her hands gleefully. Greg looked into his glass, unsure of which details of the story to tell and which to leave out.

"Go on, John, get him to spill please!" Sarah whined.

"Go on Greg, or I will," John laughed.

Greg smiled and said, "There were some bacteria. The kid contacted NASA, reckoned he'd found them real moon life. Every astrobiologist in the country was contacted. Huge fight over who would supervise."

Molly's eyebrows rose: "Seriously?"

"Yep! Said student then uses his shiny new NASA access to use Hubble, which isn't related at all to the kid's research, so questions were asked. We only knew about it because of all the panic," Greg trivialised, even though, at the time, he'd been quite eager to get the research to St. Bart's.

John snickered to himself, remembering how excited Professor Lestrade had been as he had paced around the Doctor's office.

"It can't have been the older one. I heard he turned down funding from NASA," Sarah said. A glass clanged loudly onto the table, but it wasn't acknowledged.

"Who turns down funding from NASA?" Molly said disbelievingly.

"Some with a massive ego and a lot of money," Greg said and then he groaned: "God, we'd kill for that sort of funding."

Molly rolled her eyes and swirled her drink again.

"Are you okay Molly, you're looking a bit pink?" John turned the table's attention to the young technician.

"I.. uh, I'm what?" Molly asked, clearly flustered at the attention. Even more clearly blushing.

"You're blushing! Are you impressed, Molly?" Sarah joined in.

Molly turned more pink. "No! Don't be, uh, silly! I barely know them!" she tried to rescue herself.

"Go on, Molly, you're so into them!"

"The young one is kind of cute," Molly muttered.

"Yea?" Sarah sat up.

"You like the bad boy type, Molly?" John laughed.

"He looks like a bloody vampire," Greg added, laughing equally loudly.

"A vampire, hm? Maybe he sparkles!" John said, roaring with laughter now.

Molly rolled her eyes again, glad to be the one in control of herself and muttered: "Knew I shouldn't have said anything."

Greg swooned in John's direction.

"Please, drink my blood," he let out a breathy moan, "it's so...erotic"

John mimed fangs and answered: "I'm so broody and sexually repressed – give me your virgin body!"

"Oh god," Sarah squeaked, clutching at her stomach and laughing.

"Oh, shut up," Molly said and she gulped down her drink.

"Impregnate me with your alien spawn, please!" Greg laughed.

Sarah gasped for air as John giggled the last bits of his laughter into his, now empty, glass.

"I'm getting another round, same?" Molly said, making to get up, her shoulders tense.

"I'll come with you!" Sarah jumped up.

"Fine," Molly mumbled and she made her way to the bar.

* * *

John once more mimed the vampire fangs at Greg and received a new burst of laughter in return. Greg nudged him, "What do you really think then?"

At the same time, John asked: "So, what do you think of the new guys?"

They both laughed and nodded and said 'Great minds think alike' and then looked at each other expectedly.

"I like the kid, he's smart," John started, "The older one, I'm reserving judgment on. What about you? I saw you and Mycroft chatting up a storm in the faculty room today."

Greg played with his empty glass a little before answering, "I like him, he's the saner of the two, for sure."

"Like him like you like me? Or like him like you liked Phil?" John narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, I find him attractive, you child," Greg glared at his best friend, "But I'm not looking for that."

"Really, because I've not seen you look that excited to talk to someone in a while," John said. He cocked his head lightly. These talks were rare and required alcohol, he needed to remember what Greg said. He shifted forward, attentively concentrated.

" He's very sweet," Greg said. He leant back in his seat and closed his eyes, giving up to the fact that he was saying this out loud, "but you know I can't go back there. Phil was a disaster, I'm not risking something like that-"

He stopped when he felt John's gaze upon him, "He's only been here for two weeks."

John's look didn't falter and Greg shrugged, "Oh, shut up!"

"Smitten," was all John said, "and it's written all over you."

"There's no guarantee he's even gay, let alone be attracted to me."

"Oh, he's gay," John provided, nodding happily.

"Stop making me whine like some kind of teenager," Greg growled and he squared his shoulders in preparation to walk off to find a restroom.

* * *

Molly and Sarah stood at the bar, both looking around.

"So, Moll. Has he harassed you for telescope time yet?" Sarah asked as she leant forward over the bar, looking for the bartender. The man was serving other customers and didn't notice her right away. She sighed. If she were still in her student times and as irresponsible as she was, she would've worn something a little more revealing. The bartender would already be serving them.

"Yes," Molly nodded softly.

"I thought so. He has to go on the list like everyone else," Sarah said thoughtfully, raising a warning eyebrow at the easily-impressed technician.

"Yeah," Molly said, a little high pitched this time. Her eyes darted away from her boss and back to the row of bottles of liquor.

"Right?" Sarah teased, leaning closer to Molly. She was certain she was onto something here.

"Of course!" Molly said, sounding slightly panicky.

Sarah waved a bill in the air and the bartender noticed her. Quickly, she ordered for the table, looking at Molly from the corner of her eye. "You're infatuated aren't you?" the gossip would be delicious.

"No! Don't be ridiculous!" Molly was quick to deny.

"Just don't let him on all the time," Sarah said, eyeing up the barman's back as he made the drinks, "he may need it for his studies, but we support more PhD students in that field."

Molly nodded quickly and made a high-pitched agreeing noise in the back of her throat.

"Let's go then," her boss continued as she grabbed the drinks and nodded at the barman.

* * *

"Who's gay?" Sarah plopped herself into a seat next to John and stopped Greg from escaping instantly.

"You always bring out the worst in me," Greg murmured at John.

"No one is gay," he continued, but to Sarah this time. Molly took the one remaining seat at the table and didn't particularly mind being out of this conversation. Her thoughts were rather filled with the mysterious younger Holmes and she hoped the PhD student would soon visit her.

"Everyone is gay," John said, accepting his glass and immediately taking a long drink.

"Who are you into?" Sarah squealed, everything clicking into place within her head in seconds. Greg hated having clever friends who were quick to pick up sometimes.

"Don't worry about it," Greg took several deep gulps from his new drink.

"I saw him watch you leave the faculty room, you know," John leant over and nudged Greg: "he's gay."

Molly heard this and snickered, although she wasn't sure who the Doctor was talking about.

"Stop it," Greg said, but his irritation was thinly veiled and disintegrated quickly into an intrigued grin.


	4. Chapter 4

**From now on, the chapter includes endnotes that will discuss any theorems and researches discussed in this fiction.**

**Thank you to my lovely beta, Lily, still for you. Any mistakes that remain are my own.**

**Also, I have nothing against NASA. I think they do brilliant work.**

* * *

_The definition of "free will" used in the proof of this theorem is simply that an outcome is "not determined" by prior conditions. - Free Will Theorem (Wikipedia)_

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was familiar with libraries. He knew about libraries and could tell you which ones were good and which weren't. He could tell you and support his opinions with arguments, counterarguments and the dismissal of them.

His family had had a library in the country house he'd spent his summers in as a boy. That library had had a collection of significant first editions and signed copies. It had contained heavy hand-bound books from the 18th century and a secret Victorian age 'explicit' collection that he had found with the help of a 20-something year old butler at age 17, a few weeks before he moved away to university, where he spent a few months pretending to read them for a literary thesis.

He wasn't, of course, and was more regularly found in the scientific section of his family's library when he came back for the next summer. The family owned some early texts on the developments of spectral analysis and a first edition of Joseph Lockyer's _Chemistry of the Sun_, published in 1887. A text that Mycroft had devoured several times before he'd decided that the general makeup of solar bodies would not be his focus.

Mycroft traveled with a signed copy of Einstein's _Relativity: the Special and General Theory_, a text that had become his bible.

Mycroft liked the library at St. Bartholomew's from the moment he set foot in it. And it had nothing to do with an astrobiologist sitting at a table filled with stacks of books right in his view.

"Doctor Lestrade," he said pleasantly.

"I told you not to call me doctor," was Lestrade's instant reaction and then he looked up. A smile broke out on his face and he just took a moment to take in the researcher in front of him.

The two men had seen each other perhaps a dozen times over the last few weeks, with Lestrade's new discoveries and Mycroft's attempts to get settled into his new job and flat.

"Doctor Holmes, how are you?" Lestrade stood quickly, offering Mycroft a chair.

"Please, call me Mycroft," Mycroft offered courteously, a grand gesture in his books, and took the seat. He deposited several books of his own between two stacks of Lestrade's.

"Greg's fine, then," Lestrade smiled.

"How are you doing, Gregory?" Mycroft asked.

"Fine, fine. Just, research, you know," the astrobiologist gestured vaguely at the books.

"I see," Mycroft nodded, "and what are you 'looking up'"

Lestrade added some air quotation marks in his head and nodded, "I'm teaching about H2O on extrasolar bodies. I got a bit side-tracked; NASA is doing this great study on habitability in binary systems and well..." he gestured at his books again.

"So they have finally developed a theory in which the planet's surface can cool down, despite the extreme gravitational pull of two stars?"

"They don't mention it in the article," Greg smiled.

Mycroft waved a hand and sounded exasperated, "NASA often invests money in the advanced stages of research without considering the base of their theories."

"You really do have a thing against NASA?" the biologist sounded surprised and actually closed the book in front of him to focus on Mycroft.

"Excuse me?" the man sounded unnerved, perhaps by the very focused attention on his person.

"NASA. I heard you turned their money down."

Mycroft stood a little straighter, "The Americans seem convinced they know everything just because they publish it. I have far more faith in the Eurasian effort, Gregory, we have knowledge that does not require boasting to make it significant."

"We should have coffee," Greg blurted.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft repeated in the exact same tone as he did earlier. His hand twitched by his side and it required all his focus to not let his shoulder slump.

"Coffee. We should have coffee. We can discuss your eternal hate for NASA and my unending academic jealousy towards them."

"However much I find that an agreeable idea, Gregory, I have a meeting with a man with an equation," Mycroft smiled, _smiled!,_ softly and got up, "Best of luck with your class."

Greg wanted to say something else, dismiss the idea or perhaps push it. Had it sounded like a desperate invite to a date? He just wanted to suggest a sharing of minds. Maybe the elusive researcher didn't share ideas, forever terrified of academic plagiarism? He watched Mycroft's back as the man rushed towards the exit of the library, completely forgetting the books he left on Greg's table.

* * *

"Over here," John waved the good man to a seat by the window of their favourite sandwich place. None of that Subway, which is more salad than sandwich, or McDonalds, where half the food has been on the floor at least once, but a baguette, with real butter, several slices of cheese and ham and a little salad just to be on the healthy side. And a serving of chips. John didn't trust franchises ('Once you've seen a McDonalds in the middle of a warzone, you're out') and Greg preferred to stay away from them ('I'm forced to go there often enough').

Greg sat down in the booth, opposite John, and almost immediately curled around a mug of coffee that stood there waiting for him.

"Real coffee," Greg sighed and he looked like he would be perfectly happy just drowning in it.

"You look dead tired," John laughed. Greg hummed in confirmation.

"So, Sherlock Holmes's project has been assigned to me," John said after a good minute of silence. Greg looked up from where he was making love-eyes at his coffee.

"Wha-? But, wait. What does he research?"

"Gravity in stars, especially related to pulsars," John said, "I know general theory, but I'll catch up. He's brilliant, his mind just jumps from one place to the next. He out-thinks all of us."

"But?"

John laughed softly, "It's disorganised, he can't prove a thing and he is disrespectful to practically every established theory there is."

"Who was meant to be supervising him?"

"Mycroft Holmes."

Greg spluttered into his coffee.

"How's that going?" John asked, munching on a chip.

"Don't start," Greg groaned, "Us scientists are too socially awkward for these things. And too busy to care."

"Ouch," the lecturer didn't give further comment.

"I asked him out," Greg said, "and he said: 'However much I find that an agreeable idea, Gregory, I have a meeting with a man with an equation.' And then he turned away and stalked off."

John chuckled, "That must've been flirting, Greg."

He looked at him, "What?"

"'A meeting with a man with an equation'," John made air quotations, "Please, that's meant jokingly. Tell me you laughed pleasantly and waved him goodbye when he looked over his shoulder."

Greg just gaped at the lecturer and muttered, "No, no, I turned back to my paper on theoretical habitability in ..- It doesn't matter. Mycroft doesn't interact like that, he's more in-control. He's," he looked for the word, "he's dignified."

John raised his eyebrows and took a bite of his baguette. Greg groaned.

"I give up. I'm going to buy a new computer, some computer games and an unlimited internet connection. No-one will ever see me again. I'll become that stereotype. They'll find me in a year, dead in front of my screen, still running a program that calculates the probability of life on Europa or Io..-"

"You don't even work with probab-"

"Phil was right," Greg finished, blindly reaching to pick a chip off his plate.

"Get a grip, you sound like something out of an 80s teen-angst film. Harry used to drive me nuts with those. Secondly, Phil was a dick. He cheated and left."

The biologist sighed, "Can we talk about the younger Holmes's brilliance, please?"

"Ask him again."

"I need sleep. Did you just tell me to humiliate myself again? I should be happy we study in different fields and different buildings! I'll never have to deal with awkward small talk at conferences."

"Ask him here, I'm sure he likes baguette, a real long hard one, not one of those limp Subway ones," John broke down in uncontrollable giggles and Greg couldn't help but join him.

* * *

"I don't have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?"

Mycroft sat up slowly, as though not to startle whoever it was who approached him. "Excuse me?" he said, deliberately slowly and he turned around. Upon seeing it was Gregory, who was now sporting an enormous and especially cheesy grin, Mycroft smiled and greeted him with a little tilt of his head: "Gregory."

"I was just in to hand in some books and I saw the back of the world's most mysterious space researcher," Greg continued as Mycroft's eyes were becoming larger and larger out of sheer disbelief, "and I thought I would distract him from..," Greg picked up a collection of essays and read the cover, "_Quantum Theory of Gravity, Essays in Honour of the 60th Birthday of Bryce S. DeWitt_. Wow. Do you know him?"

"Gregory, you are extraordinarily cheerful today," Mycroft said, carefully taking the book back and marking the page he was on. "I do, as a matter of fact. His wife is a close friend of my mother's and I contributed to their _Quantum field theory: perspective and prospective_."

"Isn't he American?"

"He is indeed, but genius, I assure you. And his wife, Cécile, is quite French," Mycroft said and he gestured at Greg's empty hands, "No books?"

"No new books, because it's Friday. It's lovely weather and Anderson - he's on my team - just found out our bacteria are reproducing. You'd almost say it was destined," Greg mused.

"Indeed," the physicist said, slightly at loss of what to say.

"We should have coffee," Greg said, "sit down by a window, look out at the city."

Mycroft smiled softly at his enthusiasm, "Might I suggest my office? It's on a top floor."

"Yes," Greg surprised himself because he was surprised by Mycroft. The man had just invited him to his office, the most sacred thinking place a researcher could have. He sounded more assured of himself and this enthusiastic idea that he had had. It must've been the sun he had had in his face on the walk over from the Yard.

Mycroft stood up and started collecting his things, "It's not far, I have a car waiting outside."

"A car?" Greg gasped, "You are a researcher, right? Got big secrets? Not MI5 and all that?"

Mycroft chuckled softly, "Please, I am really merely a researcher."

"And yet you know the DeWitts personally. Next you'll tell me you know Kochen," he picked random name.

"Kochen is just an old romantic."

"I-.. What? You know Simon Kochen."

"Not personally, no," Mycroft said and he gestured towards the door with his stack of books, "Shall we?"

Greg just nodded, a dazed expression on his face. Maybe the physicist wasn't more than just a researcher, but he sure had the connections. Greg had connections within his field, he knew some published researchers and respected men and women, but certainly no-one who had laid the foundations for entire schools of thought.

"So how is the famous mathematician actually a romantic? I thought science-type people don't do romance?" Greg asked as he slid into the, frankly impressive, black Mercedes sitting by the front entrance. He immediately reached out to crank open a shaded window, but a subtle cough from Mycroft stopped him. He looked over to see him hand over his books to a driver, _a driver!,_ before he sat down in the seat next to Greg. He didn't notice the separator between the back and front seats until it slid down and a woman appeared.

"Coffee, sir?" she carefully handed two ceramic mugs to the researcher next to him, once of which was handed to Greg.

"Gregory Lestrade, this is my assistant, Anthea," Mycroft pronounced her name as though it was foreign to him, "Anthea, this is the head of the Astrobiology research team at the Yard, Gregory Lestrade."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Anthea nodded cautiously, "Making new connections already, Mr. Holmes? Very well. The club or the office?"

"The office is fine, thank you," Mycroft said calmly, but his face was flushed red from her connections comment.

"Certainly."

The separator slid back up and now all the windows surrounding the two doctors were shaded, leaving them in an atmosphere that Greg wasn't sure was intimidating or intimate.

"Doctor Kochen is a romantic because he conjured up the predecessor to the "Free Will Theorem" in which there are always uncontrollable variables. He attributes human characteristics to research, allowing for an undetermined outcome, even when all the prior conditions are seemingly determined," Mycroft said, without missing a beat about the luxury they had found themselves in.

"...," Greg was unsure how to respond and waited hopefully for his brain to come back online.

Mycroft took this as a sign to continue: "Now, I must concur with him that experiments have unexpected and frankly startling outcomes at times, but to suggest that if human being have free will, so must particles, that sounds rather absurd to me."

"But in math, all of his theories have been proven. In an algorithm, there is no way to determine the working of all the sub-algorithms."

"So then what, outside the world of mathematics and in more applied sciences, would be the difference between this 'free will'," Mycroft actually made air quotes this time, "and a random event that happens to have the right timing?"

"Are you saying Kochen is a romantic for believing in the randomness of life?"

"Personally, my opinion is that he is a romantic for thinking randomness can be applied to all aspects of life. He puts more significance in the existence of randomness than it, as a concept, deserves."

Greg laughed, outright laughed, and it startled Mycroft.

"So you're a control freak? No surprise you don't do lab work," Greg's laugh had subsided into a faint giggle.

"I do lab work," Mycroft said, unable to keep the dismay out of his voice, "just of a more theoretical nature."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -.. It's just the car, and the mugs, and the driver and you, talking about the randomness of life as though it has personally attacked you in some way."

"Gregory," Mycroft started, but he stopped right away.

"Mycroft, would you go out to dinner with me?" Greg asked, having regained his seriousness.

"Excuse me?"

"I would like to discover what you do like, so we won't discuss NASA or American Kochen with his French wife or the Free Will Theorem. Just something nice, like... the weather."

"The weather?"

"The weather, and the food, and the possibility of things. Possibility, not probability. We'll keep it light and non-work related."

"I know a lovely place," Mycroft sounded slightly breathless.

"Yea?" Greg grinned. Handsomely, Mycroft's brain provided.

"Certainly. I shall have the car pick you up at 6, tomorrow evening?"

"Great," Greg said, settling back into his seat, fingers curled around the coffee mug.

* * *

**The science**

**Joseph Lockyer's **_**Chemistry of the Sun**_**, published in 1887, can be found on google books and was last published by Cornell University Library (2009), ISBN: 978-1112562280.**

_**Einstein's Relativity: the Special and General Theory**_** had been re-published many times, by many different publishers and is a must-have for modern scientists (I don't own it)**

**The research Lestrade mentions is titled 'Habitability and Water Delivery in Binary-Planetary Systems', the project investigator is Nader Haghighipour and can be found in the NASA Astrobiology Database in the 2005 Annual Report (on their website, under the NAI tab)**

_**Quantum Theory of Gravity, Essays in Honour of the 60th Birthday of Bryce S. DeWitt**_** is assembled by Steven. M Christensen and published by the Institute of Physics Publishing (1 Jan 1984), ISBN: 978-0852747551**

_**Quantum Field Theory: Perspective and Prospective**_** was assembled by Cécile DeWitt-Morette and Jean-Bernard Zuber and published by Springer (13 June 2008), ISBN: 978-0792356738**

**Simon Kochen is a Belgian-born American mathematician and is best known for his Kochen-Specker Theorem (together with Ernst Specker in 1967) and proved the Free Will Theorem together with John Horton Conway in 2004.**

**All the academic personae, involvement in their projects and their relationships are factual, their characters fictional. **

**If I forget any accreditation of the theorems and researches discussed, please let me know. If this is actually your subject area and you find mistakes (or you find mistakes anyway), message me!**


	5. Chapter 5

**So, it's been a while, but a new chapter. It's not very science-y and a lot of angsting, but it'll get better, I promise. Glorious times are ahead!**

**Enjoy!**

**Beta'd by lovely Lily, any mistakes that remain are my own. **

* * *

_"A person starts to live when he can live outside himself." - Einstein_

* * *

Mycroft Holmes had no problem picked what to wear, because he owned suits. Suits came in sets, two-piece or three-piece and were all purchased with a shirt. His tie collection was stunning and the advantage of wearing mostly black and grey was that most colours worked with a simple white shirt.

So why couldn't he decide tonight? Anthea had thoughtfully ruled out the three-piece suits, saying it would make Doctor Lestrade too tense with the formality and she was now sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, typing away on her phone. Probably setting up a conference with ESA.

"Anthea," he started, "I am quite certain I do not have the proper social etiquette for this."  
"I could pick up a book for you, sir," Anthea said, the sarcasm dripping from her voice.  
Mycroft turned around sharply and tried to cast her a stern glance, but the woman was not paying attention to his reaction.

He stood still in front of a rack of ties. He'd gone with a less formal, single buttoned black two-piece. The trousers were loosely cut, but the jacket hugged his chest pleasantly.

"I need to lose weight," Mycroft murmured at his reflection in the mirror above the rack, one that didn't even show him his whole body. Anthea made another vaguely amused sound from her chair and looked up, one eyebrow arched up.

"This is hardly the time, sir. The blue-grey one the Queen's assistant got you, sir."

Mycroft picked the tie from the rack and held it up to the mirror.

"It softens your features, sir," Anthea said matter-of-factly.

"Thank you," Mycroft said, tying it swiftly around his neck and straightening the collar, even if it didn't need it.

His assistant got out of her chair and walked up to her boss, turning him away from the mirror. She opened the top button of his shirt and loosened the tie before he could comment. Then her phone buzzed, signifying the arrival of the car. She looked at her boss, who was fidgeting nervously with the collar again, his fingers itching to do up the button.

"Don't be so formal, Mr. Holmes. It will make Doctor Lestrade uncomfortable, he doesn't seem the type for bow tie events."

Mycroft nodded softly and made his way to the car after one quick glance to the full-length mirror on the door of the room. He had to be relaxed and warm. The exact opposite of what he was, then. _Excellent_.

* * *

Mycroft hadn't stepped out of the car when he picked Greg up, as was customary for him. He let his driver ring the bell and escort the biologist under an umbrella, black with a beautiful mahogany handle, to the car. There he sat, sitting up straight, his hands neatly folded around his phone on his lap. This was how he always picked up people in a car, regardless of the purpose of the appointment.

Greg looked stunning. Even as he was sliding into the car, something that could not be done gracefully even after years of practice, and fussed a little with the lapels of his coat and his trousers. Mycroft watched him with a vague smile on his face and caught Greg's eyes as soon as the man looked up.

"Gregory," he said, buying himself time to take him in. The other man was wearing a pair of new looking jeans and a button up shirt, he looked effortlessly casual. On top of that, he looked perfect for the venue they'd be dining in.

They made it to the restaurant quickly and quietly, in which they didn't talk, and sat down at a table by the window, by Greg's choice, and Mycroft was dimly aware of the fact Greg's skin looked pleasantly tanned. The biologist smiled a bright grin and settled as Mycroft ordered a good wine and opened the menu in front of him. He knew what he would order anyway.

"What do you recommend?" Greg asked him. Mycroft pointed out some delicately selected meals, those he knew to be both filling and healthy. Greg listened to him politely, nodded when he heard an ingredient he liked particularly, but picked something Mycroft hadn't recommended. Mycroft was greeted warmly by the waitress serving them, they ordered and were consequently left behind with two glasses of water and a salt and pepper set.

Greg smiled again. Mycroft looked at him. They said nothing.

"So I've been looking forward to this all day. Sort of helped me pull through," Greg started. "How are you settling in?" he asked when Mycroft didn't have an immediate response to the flattery.

"Excellently," Mycroft answered, "I have yet to meet many of the prestiged professors, but then I'm told that that is a privilege one has to earn gradually."  
"I thought they moved the department to a different building just for you," Greg teased.

"Pshh, a mere rumour," the physicist waved his hand a little too dismissively to hide his obvious irritation. He cleared his throat and and started again: "I finally took the time to look up your research. It's absolutely fascinating."

"I thought we weren't discussing work."

"But surely, this is not work. We're discussing a passion."

Greg laughed, a tad too loudly, "Ha, no. Biology was never a passion of mine. It's interesting to its very core and base, but it certainly not my hobby."

Mycroft had never even considered this approach to his research. Both Holmeses were immersed in their work one hundred per cent, practically married to it, often to the older sibling's regret. "So what did you want to be when you grew up," he asked. A childish question, but he was genuinely curious. Personally, he'd known he was going to be researcher from the moment he started his science class in primary school.

"I wanted to be an officer on a motorbike."

It was Mycroft's turn to laugh, although he was more subtle about it, "A contradiction in its very term."

"How so?" Greg asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"An officer of the law must be the very example of safety. Those driving a motorbike are generally not the most _safe_characters. Actually, the very bike must be the most dangerous and certainly reckless vehicle on the road," Mycroft vented and immediately regretted his words. "Although I must confess that, if you'd become an office, you might have actually done something useful for society," he attempted to recover. A hole in the ground to swallow him up whole would be convenient right around this point.

Greg spluttered and, for a moment, considered the thought on just walking out. Ignoring that Mycroft has just called his research 'useless to society' just moments after claiming it was interesting, he was also just plain wrong.

"I've driving a motorcycle from age eighteen. I haven't had 'wild years', I'm a scientist for goodness sake. I have never been in trouble with the law once, paid my debts and do not have any visible tattoos," he had two covered by clothing, but it was unlikely Mycroft Holmes would ever see _those_, "And when I go for a ride, the drug dealers are not standing by the side of the road and calling out my name. They'd probably get hit. It is, above all, a social hobby."

"No, I -"

"In fact, I met my last partner there."

It stopped Mycroft still in his tracks. He vaguely remembered Anthea mentioning to _never_talk about exes on a first date. He didn't have any, so that problem was easily solved. But Gregory did and what kind of ex.

"The one who cheated?"

"Phillipe, he was called Phillipe."

"He's _French_," the disdain was dripping from Mycroft's voice, "I'm sorry he cheated on you, but he's _French_."

"That had nothing to do with him being French. He grew up in London, you know. What do you have against the French anyway? Unsavory types? Drive motorcycles too much in the warm southern French weather?"

Mycroft huffed and picked up his glass.

"Oh really, you're _still_not over the 100 Year War? That's a little vindictive, isn't it?"

"I don't think people who like frog legs are particularly _good_."

Now it was Greg's turn to laugh, somewhat disbelievingly.

"You hate the French because of some strange food?"

"I spent every summer of my childhood with my _French_grandmother, actually. I have a more profound ground for my dislike."

"That had nothing to do with his behaviour."

"Why are you defending the boyfriend who cheated on you?" Mycroft knew his argument was pointless, but really. A jealous bile had settled high in his throat and he just needed to swallow it down. He had no right to be, of course. No right and yet all he wanted to do was lash out at this Phil character. Blame it on the awkward genes. And then Phil had to be _Phillipe_and don't start to him about the French, because his grandmother definitely didn't introduce him to that culture the right way. He just despised the woman with a passion and this was the moment to lash out at the French. - Perhaps he'd had too much to drink or maybe this was just a bad day. Or perhaps it was this damned suit.

"Is that even any of your business?"

"You're not over him," Mycroft near-whispered.

Greg stopped dead and stared, his mouth opened slightly and blinking silently. He had no response, none whatsoever. Where was this coming from? How did this man know? Know _anything_? And why was it so easy? He wasn't a fighting person, he didn't like confrontation particularly, but now he just wanted to scream and shout. Maybe then the Mycroft he knew would come back.

"That is none of your business," he said decisively and he considered a dramatic walk-out for the umpteenth time since Phil's name came up.

Mycroft just stared fiercely at his glass.

"OK," Greg said slowly, "OK, this is bad, OK? This isn't - this doesn't count. I'm finishing my food and then I'm going home to sleep. I have an early start."

"Excellent idea," Mycroft said, without any warmth in his voice. He shuffled in his seat and sat up a little straighter.

* * *

Greg didn't understand how it could have happened. Well, he understood, he was _there_. He didn't remember being this _bad_ at dating. How did people do it? It was obvious Mycroft didn't think much of him; the man was doing places. No, the researcher had _been_places and was looking to settle down. Or, to get with someone. Or, get with someone who wasn't Greg.

He groaned loudly, startling a bird outside the window, and dropped himself on the couch in his tiny flat.

What had he done wrong?

Mention his ex, for one. Mention he wasn't truly over him, perhaps. In his defence, Mycroft had insulted his work. He had insulted his work in the casual manner that Phil used to. He had hurt him without any apparent effort and they didn't even know each other yet. How easily could he hurt Greg when they would? Or if they ever would.

Greg groaned again and flailed his arms into the air above his head. He kept them there, balancing his arms on his shoulders, looking at the relaxed hands from where his head was rested on the back of the couch. He felt the tension slowly seeping out of his shoulders as his shoulder blades realigned. He'd spent most of the evening hunched forward and tense. He was too old for this.

Did Mycroft even know how to read people, to communicate with them, read the subtle signs? Maybe that's why everything went wrong. Had he even ever been in a relationship? Would it take one of them just jumping the other with an insane love confession and a house without parents for the weekend. That's what Greg remembered doing when he was in his first relationship. How could he make it clear he _wanted_something if the man wouldn't know how to read the signs?

Mycroft was smart. Mycroft was beyond smart, he was a Holmes. He could read people, he could flirt, be flirted with.

Maybe Greg had just misunderstood, but then Mycroft had accepted his invitation out to dinner. If only he'd made it clear it was a date. Because it was a date. Right? It had been a date, one he'd completely screwed up. One they'd screwed up together.

It had started with that damned suit. Tight around the man's chest, his top button opened and completely unlike the Mycroft he knew. There was a _slick_ man standing in front of him, one who just wanted to sit on a couch and slouch for the rest of the evening. Greg was too old to deal with _suave _people, it just didn't fit. And then the man had started speaking, somehow unsure and completely counteracting any feigned carelessness his outfit so desperately tried to broadcast. And then the man had finally gathered his wits and confidence and that had ended in a screaming match, a full on verbal fight, in the _middle_of a place he actually quite liked.

It simply hadn't been Mycroft in front of him and he hadn't had the faintest clue how to respond. So he had lashed out. He would have to apologise tomorrow and they could just go back to be friends. Or colleagues.


End file.
